


Physical Therapy

by seatbeltdrivein



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Community: springkink, M/M, future!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when it's all too much, Roy needs a place to store away all the negative, all the stress wearing down on him like a thousand pounds of pressure. Ed understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physical Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Fuhrer!Roy/Ed – Submission – There was one rule he kept specifically for Fullmetal" for the most recent round at LJ's springkink community.

It was edging on seven o'clock, and Ed was tired of looking at notes. Tired might not have been the word for it—he was fucking sick of reading the same report over and over again. Clearly, the quality of State Alchemists had fallen since Ed's commission. Running a hand over his face, Ed leaned back in his chair, muscles stiff from hours of sitting.

Maybe Al was right. Maybe he was a _little_ obsessive about his work, but what needs getting done, needs getting done. Rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness, Ed rested his elbows on the table, trying to refocus his mind. Roy would be home soon, and he could break then. Maybe even do something about the terrible gurgling coming from his stomach. Skipping lunch had not been the best of ideas.

The drive for progress died abruptly at the squeal of tires in front of the house, car doors opening and closing, the low murmur of a familiar voice. Roy was home. Ed barely resisted the urge to run to the window and look for him. He'd been—grumpy, perhaps, would be the best word for it, when he'd left that morning, and the dismal look on Roy's face when Ed had pushed him out the door stuck with Ed the rest of the day. Roy reacted to stress in a number of ways, but more and more frequently, he'd been sticking to a single method.

Now, the uniform Roy wore was as much a symbol for the country as it was for Ed. If he came home looking the same as if he was sitting behind the Fuhrer's desk, Ed knew what to do, knew the rules like he'd written and penned them in his own blood.

When the front door opened with a loud creak, Ed was in the kitchen, sitting at a table covered in open books and scrawled-on sheets of paper. He put his pencil down without bothering to finish his sentence and stared at the kitchen doorway. If Roy's coat was off, folded over his arm, then the night would be normal. If Roy walked in with the buttons done all the way to the tall collar—

Roy stood in the doorway, every inch the ruler of a nation, and Ed kept his eyes trained on the fierce looking Amestris insignia as he got up off the chair and sank to his knees, automail protesting at the sudden movement.

The air between them crackled. Roy looked down at Ed, and when his eyes narrowed and his mouth opened to form Ed's name, Ed felt his lips dry to sand. "Edward."

Ed licked his lips and kept his eyes trained on Roy's boots, taking in the fine detail put into the metal embellishments on the side.

"Edward."

Ed would not look up. He would _not_ look up.

"Edward."

Ed—looked up. "How—" His throat was clenched down, barely leaving room for air to breathe. He had to push the words out: "How was your day?"

He was already hard. Would Roy notice? He would. He had to. Roy noticed everything.

"Long," Roy said, and walked around Ed to sit in his vacated chair. "Get me a drink."

Ed would have to stand to get a drink, and he was so _hard_. Awkwardly, carefully, Ed straightened his legs and pushed himself off the floor. He didn't need to turn his head to know Roy was watching.

On your feet, get a glass, turn on the tap, fill the glass, turn around and give the Fuhrer an excellent view of your hard-on.

Ed swallowed, his throat bobbing exaggeratedly, and Roy saw that, too.

He made Ed wait while he drank the water, just standing at Roy's side, arms tense, straight lines hanging down. It all depended, really. Ed's mind turned it over, wondering whether Roy would prolong it, or if he'd just gulp the damn drink and grab him and—

Roy set the glass on the table with a _clink_ sound. "And how was your day?"

"Good," Ed said, tongue feeling too thick to speak properly. "Fine."

"You kept busy?"

"Yes." All this fucking small talk. Ed was going to lose it if Roy didn't do _something_. He was _right there_ , and Ed was stuck, standing almost close enough to rub himself off against the edge of the table. The temptation was overwhelming—no amount of squirming, of rocking back and forth on his heels, would take the edge off.

Roy was holding the glass with his left hand. If Ed wanted, he could move closer, could _accidentally_ brush up against it when Roy rested his arm on the table again—

As if in response to Ed's unspoken thought, Roy lifted the glass back up and took a sip. So it would be one of _those_ nights. Ed shifted, trying to somehow loosen his pants. If he was going to be standing there for a goddamn half hour watching Roy have a drink and ignore him, then his cock needed to go _down._ It had a mind of its own, though, because it firmly ignored Ed's plea.

Roy went to put the glass back down again, but this time, he crooked his elbow and extended it out far enough that the movement brushed it against Ed's crotch, the restrained outline of his erection. Ed leaned closer to the table, trying not to fidget, trying even harder not to shoot off in his pants. He was close, he was _damn_ close—

"Is there a problem, Edward?" Roy asked, cold and clinical, the same voice he used to give orders to enlisted men, people whose names he never bothered learning.

Ed just looked at him. He didn't have words for this, wasn't even sure he had the ability to speak. Nights like these, Ed's tongue lost all semblance of control and his brain went liquid, swirling around his skull and ceasing to be at all useful. _Please_ , came to mind. Maybe, _what can I do?_

Or better, _what do you want me to do?_

The faintest hint of a smile curved Roy's lips. He turned in his seat, facing Ed, and extended his hand. Ed put his palm flat on Roy's, and watched as Roy jerked Ed's arm down, forcing his hand on Roy's groin. It looked dirty, Roy still dressed to the nines in his work clothes, the Fuhrer tugging some strange man down to his knees—too dirty. Ed loved it.

This, he could do. This was nothing, the easiest thing in the world. Ed kept his eyes on his hands as he undid Roy's zip and opened his pants. Roy was hard enough that his cock sprung out the moment the restraining fabric was out of the way, slapping against his uniform jacket and leaving a damp spot. Ed thumbed the tip and looked up at Roy, the man's dark eyes burning down at him. If he was this hard already, then he must have been for some time. Maybe even sitting behind his desk, signing papers and listening to diplomats whine at him. Ed could believe that, Roy spending the day thinking of nothing but coming home and fucking him.

"Is there a problem?" Roy sounded breathless. Ed wrapped his fingers around the base of Roy's cock, smiled and said, "No, _sir_."

A hand flew to his head, gripping Ed's hair so tight his scalp burned. When Ed wrapped his mouth around the swollen head and sucked, moving his lips down around the thick girth, comfortable with the familiar weight and taste, he could tell Roy was slipping, the line between home and country cracking.

"Harder," Roy commanded, and Ed did, hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head, letting Roy push him any which way he wanted. When those large hands guided him down until his nose was buried in Roy's pubic hair, Ed just closed his eyes and swallowed around the burn.

Routine, he'd once read, was comforting. Ed so often felt he could do nothing for Roy, couldn't even begin to alleviate the pressure of carrying an entire nation on his back—if Roy wanted him this way, _needed_ him this way, then it was enough.

Hands freed from his hair, Ed slumped back, throat raw. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked up. Don't speak yet, he remembered. Not until—

Roy reached up and pulled off his hat, dropping it on the table with a loud, plaintive sigh. "This is my dream," he said. "Remind me of that." The moment was gone.

Ed laughed, his voice hoarse. "It's your dream," he said, laughing all the way to his eyes. "You'll manage."

This time, Roy's hands went to his shoulders, easing him off the floor and sparing him the initial ache of joints held cramped for too long. The _thank you_ in Roy's eyes was completely unnecessary, as was the tenderness Ed would receive the rest of the night.  
Love was messy and rough at the best of times, Ed knew, and he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
